Will I be Able to Write Again?

Will I be able to write like - there's nothing that can stop me? Will I be able to write with the same vigor, the energy and the spirit of the bygone days? It's me who fails to give the words, the freedom they need. I am unable to give them the treatment they deserve from a writer like me, who should always be grateful to them.

There was a time when words came running to me, eager to express themselves through my writings. Whenever I thought of them, they used to be there, all set to pour on paper. It was as if they were waiting to be penned down by me. They used to come to me like they had long been wanting to, and with arms outstretched, I used to greet them. It's not that words don't come to me now. But when they do, I can sense a tired look in their eyes and feel the sadness on their face. I can see that they have struggled to reach me. I can see that they have had to overcome many barriers in reaching me; barriers of my inhibitions, my restrictive thoughts, my vocabulary constraints and my extreme selectivity.

Words don't come to me like they did before. When I have free time (that I hardly have) I think of them, I wait for them, but they don't arrive. Although the time is 'free', my mind is not. When words come, they come like guests; I don't feel they are mine. They lack that feeling of belongingness. It feels as if neither they belong to my world, nor I belong to their's.

Since the day I started editing, the words coming to me have begun editing themselves. They come, they change themselves and then disappear, leaving me all alone, falling short of words, speechless... Don't they like me any more? Or do they feel I hate them? Has the editor in me hurt them so hard that they refrain from coming to the writer in me? Has the editor in me been so rude to them that they avoid turning up?

Yes, I have hurt them. Perhaps, I have played with them in a way I shouldn't have. There was a time when I bragged about being a wordsmith. But today, I realize it was false pride. My pride about being able to play with words was so hollow. The credit I took for each of my literary creations was that of the 'words' which came to me, the selfless words that gave me all they could and never uttered a word about their noble deed. They were so gracious to come to me whenever I needed them and I was wrong in boasting of being a 'writer'.

I want the words to come to me as if they have always wanted to. I have grown less critical now. I am ready to accept them the way they are. I promise I won't compel them to change for me. I promise I won't 'play' with them. Only I know how much I long for them. I feel so lonely with 'no words' to express myself. My thoughts, my imagination, my creativity, all of them need the means to portray themselves and only words can give them the means and meaning!

I want the words to return. I want them to come like they did before. I want them to help me write; I want them to awaken the writer in me and I want to write like never before. Will I be able to write again?